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The Goosey Gazette Messages in this topic - RSS

Posts: 85

21 days ago
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

The Urchin and the Noman
by R. J. Frogvarian

Next came shadow, cold, hunger. The boys were roused from their sleep, though they desperately clung to the remnants of unconsciousness. They dared not move an inch. In the urchin’s eyes, thunder subsided, grey clouds sheepishly floating. In the noman’s eyes, a single fear: the cold of north.

Then, all was well.

The next visitor came in a storm. Lacre hailed around, temperatures demanded any cover they might find. Underneath a raggedy blanket, one of the boys had almost convinced himself his limbs were not giving out, when…

Warmth spread through the room. In an impromptu hearth flames danced high, and from behind them, a cloaked figure stared.

“There will be tragedy, you know,” it said, “It likes tragedies. There is much at stake for us. Can you feel the heat of the flames? How the Neath-snow noxiously melts? The worst storms come when end is near. Yes, soon the tears will subside. Soon, fires will burn stronger again. May they burn forever.”

It sat with them in solemn understanding for a while. When the storm had stopped, the fire had died out, the lovers now fast asleep, it was nowhere to be seen.

Day IX
It was gone in a flesh. A shadow swooped onto the roof, glowing eyes peered inside. A low screech like distorted laughter sounded.

“Oh, but we will see,” it intoned, and then, it was gone.

Yet, the urchin and the noman sat in stiff silence. Their fingers no longer intertwined - not for lack of want, only for fear that the other will let go.

Day X
A letter was slipped through a slit in the wall. Gently it floated down, between the two sitting on the floor. Shaky white hands broke the seal, pale fingernails fished the paper out. In neat handwriting, the letter spoke. It spoke of many truths and secrets, heart-wrenching tales, warnings of stories. It expressed sorrow over the boy’s predicament.

Most of all, it gleamed with understanding.

Little could be done to stop the tears.

Day XI
And tears never stopped before another hood appeared in the window. Soft fingers wiped the damp cheeks. A basket of food was placed on the floor.

“It does little to mourn early. Time is that which heals. Memories are what fuels us. These have not been easy days. Make the happiness last last forever.”

Laughter filled the room, soft and slow as if afraid to come out, but bold and brave in its presence. Smiles joined the tears, and just for a moment, thoughts swayed away from the inevitable.

The final day was marked by silent softness. The world moved as if through molasses; not even the birds and the wind dared break the calm. If one squinted in sleepy blissfulness, if looked almost as if sunlight spread through the windows and the holes of the humble rooftop hideout.

The urchin and the noman together as one. Smiles of regrettable truth and acceptance. With stormy eyes they looked at each other. No bliss can last forever.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

Sun-Filled Stories, Chapter Two
Part III
by Cassius Mortemer

The Author led the Introverted Devil to his own home. Even when they were well away from the Side-Streets and the worst of the crowd, he was still rather disoriented. It was only when the Devil was seated in the Author’s favourite reading chair, his handkerchief forcefully pulled away from his face to allow him fresh air, that the Devil managed to regain his senses. The Author brought him a glass of Amanita Sherry. The Devil hesitated.

“You’ll probably feel better,” the Author said. The Devil, still unsure, took the glass anyway. It’s not like the Author could drink it.
“I’m… more surprised that you’d have it, to be honest.”
“Friend of a friend,”
“I see…”

The conversation went stagnant. The Devil awkwardly drank the sherry. The Author fiddled with his sleeves. Itching to start up a conversation. They sigh in unison. Then they smiled.
“Well…” the Author started, “It wasn’t a boring day,”
“It’s only noon,”
They smiled at each other, partly out of politeness, partly out of fondness. Struggle brings people together, even in cases like theirs. The Devil put his empty glass on a nearby table and got up, wiping away his smile.

“I should go,” he said. The Author sprang up and grabbed his arm.
“Wait! Are you sure? You seemed just about ready to pass out a moment ago,”
“I was not!”
“Consider it repayment then. For the trouble I caused,” the Author snagged the open bottle of Amanita Sherry, smiling sheepishly.
“Of course, I will be indulging in cheap Greyfields,” he continued.

The Devil looked at the Author, then the cheap sherry, then glanced back at the door. He sighed.
“Alright, fine. But after this I’m leaving,”

Three hours and two bottles later, and the Devil was still there. He was draped languidly over his chair, legs dangling over an armrest and an empty glass balanced on his stomach.
“Why… am I still here?” he drawled. He was supposed to leave ages ago. But now he’s here. With the Author. In relatively close proximity.

“Because you’re my guest and that’s just good manners,” the Author said. He was lying on his stomach, peering at the devil from over the edge of the couch’s armrest. Not the most comfortable of positions, but he enjoyed the view.

“You’re blond,” the Author remarked. The Devil, with his hat and tinted glasses tossed carelessly onto a coffee table, raised an eyebrow. He didn’t comment. The Author kept on, already accustomed to his silence.
“Like sunshine,” the Author said, reaching out as if to touch it. The Devil sat upright, out of reach. The Author didn’t seem particularly bothered. The Devil was already wondering what would’ve happened if he didn’t flinch away.
There was a moment of dizzy silence as the Author checked for remaining wine, and the Devil quietly contemplated society norms. Disappointed, the Author slumped back onto the couch. Staring at the Devil.
“What are souls like?”

The Devil stiffened.
“Do they taste a particular way, for instance?”
“Don’t be silly. We don’t eat souls,”
The Author thought for a bit, sitting upright.
“What do they look like?”
An idea occurred to the Devil. An awful one, yet an excellent one. It could answer all his questions, the ones just barely buzzing to the surface. Every...

“Why don’t I show you?” he said. He joined the Author on the couch, elbows rubbing together. It may be rather ill-taught to do this on a living room couch, but the Devil doubted he’d get the Author all the way to his bedroom and still manage to be charming.
“Do you know how this works?” the Devil asked. The Author’s throat bobbed. Nervousness, but not reluctance.
“On the couch?” he asked. The Devil smiled at him.
“Don’t worry about it,”

The Devil took his hand and leaned close, remembering all those lessons, all those well practiced words… The Author seemed surprised. Was he expecting something else? The Author was swallowed up by his words in no time at all. Warm, golden light, swimming behind his eyelids...

And then the Devil was gone.

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

Red Lights Overhead - Citizens Report A “Christmas Miracle”

Christmas may be nearly behind us, but the festive mood still remains. With some, even a little more than usual.

For several days, there have been many reports of strange occurances within the main London area. Citizens claim seeing a large silhouette of some sort of hansom with many horses, lead by a strange bright red light. There have also been reports of hearing a deep yet calming laughter from the false skies.

All of these reports, some overlapping, also claim having found small gifts on their windowsills the following morning.

While none of these claims have been confirmed as true, we would advise any and every citizen to stay vigilant and not fall victim to viles of some shadowy gift-giver.

Nonetheless, it could also be a big beneficial jest, or better - a performance piece! That would, of course, delight us.

Nonetheless, London, we do hope your holidays had been marvelous, and that good things will come to you within the new year.

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
Once again, I have failed. Perhaps it is time.


Dear Pleasing,
It, fortunately, may never be the time - unless, of course, it comes of its own accord.

R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.


Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Posts: 85

14 days ago
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

And on the Seventh day, we wept.

------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

Sun-Filled Stories, Chapter Three
Part I
by Cassius Mortemer

The Author woke up in his bedroom, a small package on his bedside table. It was morning, and he was alone. What happened last night? He didn’t feel particularly troubled. Or happy. Or particularly alive.

The Author rolled over and grabbed the package. Logically, he thought he should be alarmed, scared, heartbroken. He felt none of that. Just a vague emptiness, deep within him. He opened the package. It was a few handfuls of jewels, bits of Nevercold Brass and a Devilbone dice. There was a piece of paper on his bedside table. A contract. His very own infernal contract.

He had lost his soul.

Should he go look for it? It’s certainly an odd sensation, to not have a soul. Not unpleasant, he supposed. But odd.
He wrapped up his jewels and brass and made way for the door. He should look for the Introverted Devil. He will have his soul. Won’t he? He certainly didn’t expect an Abstraction when the Devil sat so close to him yesterday, but he’s the only one that could’ve done it. He thought about last night. Drinking with the Devil, getting to know him… somewhat.

He didn’t feel anything...

Did his home always look this grey and dismal? The Author got dressed in cleaner clothes. He’ll check the honey-dens first. He met the Devil there, after all. Maybe someone saw him. Maybe someone knows where to find him.

The same Guardswoman stopped him from going in this time around.
“You don’t understand, I-”
“Yeah, yeah, you said the same thing yesterday,”
The Author felt a somewhat... muffled sense of unease. A knot in his stomach where anger used to be. It feels kind of… cold, now.
“I don’t need to go inside,” he says.
“What do you want, then?”

The Author pulled a piece of paper out of his pants pocket. He had attempted a sketch of the Introverted Devil from memory before coming here. It wasn’t half bad, really. Very detailed, too.
“Have you seen this devil? He’s blond, wears all black.”

The guardswoman looked at the picture for a while, then at the Author. Then back at the picture. She jerked her chin to the alleys off to her right.
“Yesterday. That’s all”
The Author looked towards the alleys. That’s where he and the devil had met. He’s no closer than he was when he left his house. He sighed, disappointed, but thanked the Guardswoman nonetheless.

The next place to check would be the Forgotten Quarter. The Author took the exact same route he took with the Devil. Waited for a cab on the same corner. Got off at the same desolate street.

The Forgotten Quarter was quiet. But not ‘quiet’ as in a lack of sound - there was screaming in the distance, for one - it was the kind of quiet that instantly silenced your own thoughts. The kind that allowed even the slightest sounds to press in on your ears and burrow into your mind.

The Author put one foot in front of the other. A muffled sense of fear was creeping into his heart, as if by habit instead of genuine feeling. Is it safe to travel alone here, where Devils prey on humans? What would they do to someone who’s soulless? Does he even know where he’s going?

Would he be able to find the Devil again?

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

Our Dearly Departed

______ __________
12th of June 1872 - 5th of January 1898

Today we say our goodbyes to ______ __________, a renowned hunter, zailor, a loving friend. Only a handful had returned from her last northbound expedition. The zhip had crashed, unsalvageable, and ______’s zailors refuse to speak of what had happened.

______ is survived by only her brother and sister. A symbolic funeral shall be held at the delta of the Thames and the Unterzee, in a week’s time with the midnight bell’s chime.

May her soul find peace.

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
Perhaps, it was all for something.


All shall be well.

R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.


Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+3 link
Posts: 85

7 days ago
-------------------------------------- Editorial --------------------------------------

The passage of time truly is a bewildering concept when one wills to give it thought. Not in the way where it might lack sense, rather in the way of the human mind being unequipped to fully comprehend Time’s full quirks and reaches. A month, at times, might feel like a week. A month, often, might feel like the full extend of a year. A year, rarely, might feel like no time had passed at all.

No matter subjectives or unperceivable truths, there is objectiveness to the comparative length of a year. 12 months; 52 weeks; 365 days; 8,760 hours; 525,600 minutes; 31,536,000 seconds. Today’s is the 53rd edition of our humble paper. A year in the making, truly, and all of it impossible without the help of London’s artistic community.

In the darkness of the Neath still shine lights. In the galleries, the theaters, the smoked back rooms of restaurants. There, brighter than the candles, the creativity of artists radiates luminous iridescence. It is our great honour and privilege to capture a bit of this glamour, to print it onto our pages, to share it with the rest of our remarkable city.

It is my hope that the Gazette has provided you dear readers with at least some amount of entertainment and, perhaps, an amount of joy as well.

We shall, of course, continue further on, and discover new reaches for our as well as your art to blossom within.

Best of regards,


------------------------------------ Art of London ------------------------------------

Sun-Filled Stories, Chapter Three
Part II
by Cassius Mortemer

“Here we go again…” he whispered. He tried his best to remember the road he took yesterday. He hadn’t been focussing on the way at all. He was too busy asking questions and watching the Devil’s reactions.

He had passed four horse statues (or the same statue four times?) and finally admitted to himself that he had no idea where he was going. Perhaps he should’ve looked for a guide instead? He sat on the edge of what might’ve been a broken statue. Or a fancy rock. He didn’t care, he was too busy moping.

He unfolded the little sketch he drew of the Devil. He had only met the man yesterday. Do the soulless normally get this attached to the devil that takes their soul? Do devils usually rush an Abstraction? He had a friend who got hounded by a devil for weeks before he finally attempted an Abstraction. The devil failed, of course.

A shadow passed over his sketch, making it hard to see. Someone was standing before him. The Author’s gaze shot up, and he locked eyes with a pair of sulphur-fire blue eyes. The man was grinning cruelly at him. It took the Author a moment to recognise the Churlish Devil, who had nearly made him an Infernal Hunt participant the day before.

The Author sprang to his feet but the Churlish Devil planted a hand on his shoulder, pushing him back down.
“Now, now, no need to rush...” he purred. “Where’s your little friend?”
The Author didn’t say anything. He couldn’t, he wouldn’t, he didn’t want to. The Churlish Devil tightened his grip.
“It’s not nice to stare,” he said. It almost sounded like a threat.

The Author attempted to weasel out of the Devil’s grip. An awkward roll of the shoulder, a little shimmy to the side. The Devil didn’t hold on, instead watching him with idle interest. Like a cat watching a lizard wriggle and run before he tears its skin off with his fangs. He grabbed the Author by the collar before he could get too far away.

“I seem to recall your little friend breaking something of mine…” the Devil said, pulling the Author close. The Devil’s chest pressed to the Author’s back, and his free hand grabbing on to the Author’s bicep.
“Please let go of me…” the Author said. The Devil leaned his face close to the Author’s neck and took a deep breath. Every muscle in the Author’s body was telling him that now would be an excellent time to run, perhaps. Only for self-preservation purposes, of course.

The Churlish Devil hesitated… then started laughing.
“He took your soul, eh? Ha! Didn’t know he had it in him.” He roughly pushes the Author away, sending him stumbling. He caught himself, barely.

“Well, I no longer have any use for you. But that doesn’t mean my time would be wasted…” the Devil said. “I’ll give you a five second head start. If you get away, you’re safe. At least for some time. But if you don’t…” the Devil only smirked. The Author didn’t waste any time. He bolted before the Devil could say ‘go’.

(Un)Holy Night
by Chronic Dreamer

Two of my friends and I raced to the city center on bicycles, all of us having started from various points around the city. The brown multi-storied buildings were primarily of the Tudor style; a few modern sensibilities accented the buildings, such as shingled roofs and windows on the lower levels bastioned by iron bars. Other than the three of us, the city was desolate.

I had been the last one to arrive which made me the last to have my wish granted by The Crimson Beast. The building — that The Beast had propped their tent on the lawn of — towered over us with white columns and cold trim. Bearing a wide berth, it pushed all the other buildings away with well-groomed green. The building accented a much smaller white tent housing myriad musical instruments and mixing tables in which waited the wishing fairy (previously The Beast). Her violet hair floated freely as if in water and she drifted free from the shackles of gravity. She listened to one of my friends, the one who was the second to arrive. The first to arrive had already received their wish, and they were kept as a liquid in a tall-necked, deep-blue vase.

I already knew this was to be our fate; it had happened to me the previous time I had made a wish. That time, I was unaware of the process and shocked to find myself melted into a liquid and kept in a bottle. I watched as the universe around me slowly folded in on itself, molding itself to where my wish became the altered reality. For those around me, this was instantaneous; for me, I had to wait for the eternity to end and circle back to the point where I had uttered my wish.

When my second friend melted into the eternal liquid, I stepped up to make my wish. I joked with the fairy of how we had done this dance before and how I wanted a different wish, this time. Before I could express my wish, and after I had made the off comment, angels in sharp suits came into existence, seized me, and flew me away by my shoulders. They ferried me to the foyer of a drab office building, the whole place in a tumult.

Something evil had been re-born because of my wish, I had overheard. Ordinarily, they would have perceived each and every time the universe looped, and kept that evil under their watchful eyes and in their made prison. My wish, they did not know about. The evil being, called Noah by the angels, had been able to escape its imprisonment. During the singular point in time, the gap between where the previous universe ended and my wish universe began, Noah escaped its bonds with its will of wrath and gave itself birth in the new world.

The other side of the foyer, next to the hallway of office rooms, faded away to reveal a dirt path that wound through a neatly kept wooded area. On the path trod an adult male holding tightly to a baby wrapped in a serene blanket. The angels cross the threshold, frightening the man and poised to execute the infant. My sense of morality was thrown into conflict. I did not want a baby to die, but I knew that if it is true evil it must. I am unable to decide its fate.

------------------------------- News of Art, Art of News -------------------------------

Prolific Paper Reaches One Year In Age

Which is, of course, both a truth and jest on this humble reporter’s part. The bottom line, of course, is information.

In the next year of The Goosey Gazette, a few changes and improvements:

The Gazette is now under the label of the Word & Press printing agency, who provide us with new possibilities of form.

The Gazette is still under the ownership of one R. J. Frogvarian, which guarantees a wealth of content.

The Gazette is still here to serve its readers, which guarantees integrity.

All in all, there are positive changes on the horizon for a humble growing paper.

Wish you all the best, London.

---------------------------------- Ask Mother Goose ----------------------------------

Dear Mother Goose,
Perhaps, it is good.


Dear Resting,
It is what it is, and it will be what it shall be.

R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.


Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link
Posts: 85

7 days ago
The Goosey Gazette turns one today!

Or, technically, one and a week - however, it is precisely a year since the very first edition had been published.

I would like to say many thanks to everyone who has submitted over this year, it would be quite literally impossible to lift of if it weren't for you.

In some exciting news, we have a website now! Go check it out:

Exciting stuff! The site is, of course, heavily under construction, so pardon the look of it.

R. J. Frogvarian
An Extraordinary Mind, Correspondent, and author of mysterious, if a bit scandalous, qualities.
Open to interactions, roleplay, chess, and the occasional scanadlosity.


Publisher of
The Goosey Gazette, the best stop for all things arty and Neathy!
+2 link

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